Goodbye blue Monday.
One day. One damn day since I talked with Hayles. I've never been more happy for a Monday.
Angry mothers raise daughters fierce enough to fight wolves.
That elusive someday has suddenly become now. Your little girl – your jewel – is going to be a bride.
Maybe it's just a daughter's job to piss off her mother.
Let go of your daughter with grace and you’ll find her calling on you with joy.
An egg is a thing that must be careful. That's why the chicken is the egg's disguise. The chicken exists so that the egg can traverse the ages. That's what a mother is for.
The first time you see your grown-up little miss looking back at you from a sea of white chiffon or beaded satin glory, indeed your heart will skip a beat. You’ll find yourself blinking back tears.
Mothers are urgently trying to tell something to their daughters, and this urgency is precisely what repels their daughters, forcing them to turn away. Mothers are left stranded, madly holding a lump of London clay, some grass, some white tubers, a dandelion, a fat worm passing the world through itself.
When a daughter loses a mother, she learns early that human relationships are temporary, that terminations are beyond her control, and her feelings of basic trust and security are shattered.
Blood is thicker than water, my mother had always said when I was growing up, a sentiment I’d often disputed. But it turned out that it didn’t matter whether she was right or wrong. They both flowed out of my cupped palms.
Without a mother or mother-figure to guide her, a daughter also has to piece together a female self-image of her own.